


Creatures Of Habit

by nerdqueenenterprise



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: (but it's nobody nice or important ok), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Childhood Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mutual Pining, also i know the summary sounds like that but surprise there's actually no homophobia here, i understand that the title is from a shinedown song but i promise this is soft and good and not bad, this is a HAPPY story with a HAPPY ending, this is gay and also fluffy idk what to tell you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdqueenenterprise/pseuds/nerdqueenenterprise
Summary: The powers that be very much do not want Crown Prince Paul to be in love with Royal Physician Hugh. Unfortunately, said powers are also Paul's father, who of course just so happens to be... yeah, the king. Paul thinks that that doesn't matter because he'll love who he wants to love.Luckily Hugh has enough brains for the both of them.





	Creatures Of Habit

**Author's Note:**

> shinedown is a fantastic band you guys are just mean
> 
> also huuuuuuge thanks to the following people  
> \- kenzie, who answered my question ("how do i make them smooch?") with "by making them smooch"  
> \- allie (that's your nickname now sorry please file a complaint if you don't like it) who told me where to stick hugh's beard (and also fix some other holes)  
> \- maddy who is at least 50% responsible for the writing of the kiss even though she thinks ginger is delicious  
> \- and also headlines-breadlines-blowmymind who is directly responsible for this idea not letting go of me
> 
>  
> 
> [listen to more shinedown u guys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwo06cdrpuE)

Paul is slouching comfortably against the cool stone wall, crinkling his perfect jacket in the small of his back, but he’s got more important things to worry about than fashion. This cut will be old and boring in a week or so anyways, and with how intently he’s picking at the cuffs he’ll be pulling out the thread soon.

Like worms.

Not that he’s ever seen worms, but that’s probably how you pull them out of the earth.

Assuming you do pull worms out of the earth.

Or maybe that was carrots.

Whatever. Doesn’t really matter.

His riding boots are cutting into the insides of his knees slightly, and into his achilles heel as well. They’re new, polished to a shine, and he has yet to break them in properly. That had been his plan for today, but nothing has really been going his way recently, so it’s not that surprising that he’s here, leaning against the wall, waiting for the physician’s verdict, while his horse is probably still being held for him.

He should really order her to be put back into her stable. This is already taking far too long for the outcome to be anything but good.

His boots are shiny enough to reflect the light still coming through the windows. It’s still early enough in the day that, well, that you could accomplish something with it.

Paul exhales shakily and reminds himself to keep his hands out of his hair. It’s been getting styled and coiffed and brushed and buffed into perfect waves ever since he turned eight, and his instructors used to beat his knuckles black and blue for constantly messing it up. Now the desire only returns when he’s feeling stressed and helpless.

Which is the matter at hand.

Glory to the sun and the moon and whatever other fucking deities are out there, but can he _please_ get some news?

His head smarts from where he knocked it back against the stone wall. His riding breeches don’t even have pockets he can shove his hands into, and neither does his jacket, because of course, why would he need to hold his own things? There are people for that. But it leaves his hands dangling down awkwardly, fingertips filling with blood and pounding a little, and that’s really annoying.

The twelfth bell begins sounding right as the door opens and a whole armada of people streams out, murmuring greetings and pleasantries at Paul. His instructors would smack him some more, or assign him additional work if they knew he wasn’t moving from his slouch and wasn’t acknowledging any of them, but he really can’t be bothered to show form.

But finally, eventually, the last man steps out of the room, wiping his hands on a towel and thanking a servant when she takes it with her, and he doesn’t leave like the others did.

Paul observes him passively. Clean white fabric cut in the distinctive shape of a palace physician’s  uniform, the few accents embroidered in blue thread, and then the red-green-gold of the royal coat of arms on his shoulders giving away his position of physician to the royal family. His rings of status are missing, more frequently as of late, so he can treat his patient.

Paul contemplates the man’s earrings instead of looking at his face - simple, small golden hoops with a bead made from ruby - and waits for him to speak.

    “Your Royal Highness. If I might ask you to walk with me, please.”

He’s got such a nice voice.

Paul acquiesces with a small nod and falls into step next to him, still not looking at him.

They’re almost all the way down the corridor when his companion finally begins talking. “His Majesty’s condition is… not improving. He will recover, for now, and you can expect him to be resuming most of his duties within just a few days, as I doubt I have been able to convince him to stay in bed and rest, but a new attack will follow.”

They’ve reached one of the lesser staircases, and Paul lets his fingertips trail over the railing while they walk down it, pretending to process the doctor’s words when really he’s somewhere far away.

He only speaks when they’ve passed through several other corridors and are approaching the great exit towards the Royal Gardens. “How much longer does he have?”

    “Not very. I am sorry to cause you such grief, but… well, it would of course be preferable if he were to do as instructed, and then he would most certainly have more time, maybe a full year. But in the state he is in now, and considering the vigor with which he wishes to return to his offices and his work…” The doctor trails off.

Light gravel is crunching under their boots, and there are birds singing and the great bushes of lilac that frame the path are smelling wonderful. Paul touches a few stray branches that are in need of clipping.

    “He doesn’t think I’m ready, does he?”

Again the doctor doesn’t answer immediately, and they pass the great fountain at the first intersection in silence.

Paul veers off to the left.

    “I am afraid he does not, no, Highness.”

Paul snorts. “Will he ever.”

    “If I may be so bold -”

    “Of course you do.”

    “You are still very young, Highness.”

    “I’m twenty eight summers. What, do I need to be grey before I wear the crown? He’s never thought I’d ever be ready, and now he’s killing himself because he thinks I’m not good enough to take on the crown. But tell me, doctor, who’s holding court four days a week for three hours a day? Who’s convening with the council? Who’s trying to allow for workers’ unions, and a curfew, and royal pardon sentences and a citizen registering system and an incorruptible system for trusted healers to make life safer and better for the common people? If it weren’t for me - if he were to carry on with those ’reforms’ he wants, and the new building plans, and a royal riding school, an expansion to the military to the point of pressing people into service - that will end in mayhem, even a revolution in five years, ten at the most! When is the last time he even listened to the council! And instead he spends and spends and spends the money on lavish galas and on fine arts and dress codes and the summer palace and always, always the military, like gold grows on trees. And when he realizes that those things are costly, he raises the taxes. Already there are a growing number of common folk who can’t make ends meet. The temples are fulfilling their quotas for children to receive priestal education faster and faster. If my father continues on that path, of course I will fail. We’re reaching a tipping point, doctor, and we’re reaching it a lot quicker than I dared fear.”

The doctor bows his head again. “I am well aware of those issues, Highness.”

Paul hangs his head and they lapse back into silence. Neither of them really has an eye for the artfully cut bushes in the shapes of lions and dragons and horses that flank the path here.

    “I assume,” Paul starts again, not trying to keep the frost out of his voice as much as he maybe should. “He didn’t ask for me.”

    “He did indeed not.”

    “Right. Anything else?”

    “He has been asking about your queen mother.”

    “Ha. Of course.”

    “You have not heard any news yourself?”

    “No.”

The cool shadow of a small man-made pine forest wafts over them, and even though this forest is so artificial it hurts it still allows Paul to leave the palace behind a little. If he’d turn around, he’d even only barely be able to see it. And sometimes he does consider getting on his horse and really turning his back on this place, but… he can’t. Especially not while his father is still wreaking havoc on the throne.

The path winds its way along a little stream until it comes to a slightly broader bed with big round stones around it. Paul leaves the path there and steps closer to the water until it’s just barely flowing shy of the tips of his boots. Of course the doctor stays on his path, maintaining a respectful distance. He’s always so damn polite.

    “This is one of my favorite places in the gardens,” Paul says softly, watching his own reflection. It’s almost odd to see his face without the slim circlet that he wears so much it feels more like a part of him than a denotation of his status. Without it, he’s… incomplete, but also free.

Boots drag through grass behind him. The doctor still stops a step behind Paul, and there’s the barest fleeting hint of fingertips on the back of Paul’s jacket before the doctor drops his hand again.

    “I know,” he answers, voice just as quiet as Paul’s.

Paul reaches behind himself and takes Hugh’s hand, as always marvelling at how strong and warm his fingers are, the way they instinctively curl around Paul’s.

    “No,” Hugh whispers. His fingers withdraw, leaving a swiftly cooling trail of desperately sizzling sparks.

Paul turns and looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time since Hugh left the king’s chambers. Notes the streaks of gold over his cheekbones and how well they frame his eyes together with the golden eyeliner, how the golden accent right under his lower lip makes it more full and more inviting, the way the sleek brush strokes contrast so nicely with Hugh’s closely cropped beard. Of course the makeup is nothing but a fashion statement, a conveyor of status and power and whatnot. Paul objects to most of it because it makes his skin itchy and he doesn’t like the way most colors look on him because they all seem too vibrant for his complexion. But Hugh always manages to look effortlessly stunning.

Only that he’s now averting his eyes.

Paul cups his cheek and tries to get those pretty doe browns to look back at him, but to no avail.

    “Hugh.”

But Hugh shakes his head. “We can’t. You know we can’t.”

    “Nobody will see us here.”

Hugh’s fingers curl around Paul’s wrist, tugging lightly.

    “If your father finds out, he’s going to have me executed, and we both know that.”

    “He doesn’t have to find out. Just because you’re not as noble as he’d like for my spouse to be - you’re still - you’re a _physician_ , Hugh! Who cares how much money your name carries or how prestigious your family manor is or whatever when you already out-class everyone in the room!”

    “Your father is a hardcore royalist and you know he won’t see his son dallying with someone who’s got so little blue blood he might as well be a servant.”

    “I - it’s not _dallying._ I’m not dallying. I’m serious. _It’s_ serious. And once this bout of sickness is over, you know he’ll be back to parading marriage-worthy nobles in front of me every week. I’d much rather - I’d like to say I’m taken, Hugh. I - I’d like to have my first kiss with someone I love before I’m old and grey.”

Hugh slumps visibly but still shakes his head. “You’ll be king eventually. Soon, even. Can’t you wait for that? So that maybe the man you love still has his head by the time you can legally kiss him?”

    “My father wouldn’t dare behead you. He wouldn’t _dare_. You’re the royal physician, you’re the best physician in the country!”

    “There are other ones who are just as good.”

    “But you’re the best! He wouldn’t dare.”

    “Of course he would, especially when he finds out I’ve been getting frisky with his heir!”

    “I’m asking you for a kiss, not to take my virginity. That hardly constitutes getting frisky.”

    “I know. You’ve been asking me for that kiss for years now.”

    “And you keep denying me.” Paul tries not to sound too accusing. This is far from the first time they’ve had this argument, and of course Hugh is still as right as ever.

    “Not for a lack of love or lack of desire, Paul. You know that.” Hugh finally does withdraw Paul’s hand from his cheek and, dipping to kiss it, he says, “Your Highness, have a lovely afternoon.”

He always cuts a fine figure, even when leaving. The uniform has always looked far too good on him.

 

 

 

 

Paul regards the kid with squinty eyes. “You don’t look like a servant.”

The kid puffs up, suddenly proving to stand probably four whole inches taller than Paul. “Why would you think that?”

    “You’re not supposed to be here.” It’s important to keep your voice cool when you’re reminding someone of their place, or so Paul’s instructors say. He’s been learning how to appropriately rebuff someone this week, and it’s nice to be able to try it out. When the kid doesn’t reply immediately, he adds, “This is the royal wing of the palace. It’s restricted to the royal family, the royal guard and the royal servants. Nobody else may enter without permission, so please, may I see yours?”

    “Well who are you then, and where’s _your_ permission?” The kid glares.

    “I’m the crown prince. I don’t need anyone’s permission.”

The kid at least has the decency to look ashamed now, and he gives an inelegant but courteous nod. “My apologies, your Highness. I’m new here, and I got lost. If you will excuse me.”

  
  


It’s not the last time Paul sees that kid. He’s training to be a doctor, apparently, and naturally that would lead him into the palace, as the medical school is attached to the conglomerate of buildings that make up the entire extended palace. Apparently doctors also need to know how to ride a horse, so Paul sees him around the stables on occasion, and then also in the royal gardens a lot, usually quietly reading.

After a while he mentions the kid to his father, who predictably bans Paul from playing with the third child of a lesser baron somewhere in the west.

So naturally Paul offers him some of his sweets when he sees him in the gardens the next time around and also offers him his first name.

Hugh is an amazing friend. He’s more shy and quiet where Paul is loud and, well, princely, and he loves to read stories as much as Paul does, he’s really good at playing hide and seek and the guards’ dogs don’t bark at him when the two of them come to pet them in their kennels. Hugh is also smart and knows so many things about so many topics that Paul has barely ever heard of, and he’s a great listener and he gives good hugs and Paul spends many, many nights thinking about his smile.

Hugh comforts him when Paul’s mother leaves again and again on diplomatic missions, staying away longer and longer, leaving Paul to his father’s care; and Paul in turn tries his best to help Hugh with his studies and his frequent homesickness.

  
  


The evening of Midsummer Festival during Paul’s thirteenth and Hugh’s fourteenth year, they eventually leave the celebrations to sneak away to one of their favorite places, a spot under the trees next to a small stream in the gardens. They both brought a few wine skins each and they keep switching them, testing all the various wines and sticking their tongues out at the taste.

    “I really like you,” Paul confesses sometime after midnight when they’ve given up the wine altogether and are just sitting together. “Like, really, _really_ like you.”

Hugh nods. “You’re my best friend.”

    “No, I mean - you know how the Dukes of Wosterley like each other? I like you like that.”

    “The Dukes of Wosterley? You know that they’ve been caught kissing in that old sitting room next to the old orange parlor?”

    “I’d kiss you in an old sitting room.” Paul grins.

    “No, like, they were getting undressed.”

    “You told me it’s just natural, all the… body stuff. Doing things.”

    “Well… yeah, but not in a sitting room. You need… stuff, I think. To help. If both partners have, you know. If they don’t have the birthing bits.” Hugh is looking flushed, though Paul can’t tell whether it’s from the damp heat of the night or the wine or because he’s embarrassed.

    “I’d still kiss you in a sitting room. I’d kiss you here,” he offers. “I’ve been wondering what it’s, you know, what it’s like.”

     “It’s kind of wet and a bit slobbery,” Hugh admits, ripping out blades of grass. “I, when I went back to my family earlier this summer - there’s this girl, the mayor’s daughter, and I had already finished in the temple and was waiting for my parents, and she was there and pulled me behind a pillar and, you know, kissed me.”

Paul’s heart suddenly thunders in his chest. “Did you like it?”

Hugh giggles and blushes even more. “She’s got - she’s sixteen or something, I think, and she has, you know, it’s all squishy.”

    “I don’t know. What does she have?”

Hugh motions around his chest. “You know. Breasts. I don’t know, it was weird.”

    “So you didn’t like it.”

    “I didn’t say that!”

    “It’s fine if you don’t. Plenty of people just aren’t interested.”

    “I know it’s fine, Paul. I meant more like, I didn’t like the way she did it. It was weird, and… all the squishing, you know? Hers weren’t huge, but they were… there, you know? It wasn’t like hugging you. But no, I didn’t like it.”

    “Did you touch them?”

    “No!”

    “Would you like it better… without?”

    “Probably.”

Later, Paul would learn that the way his head swam then wasn’t due to the alcohol, but in that moment it was easy to assume. And that also made it easy to ask his next question: “Would you kiss me?”

    “Moon, yes!” Hugh exclaims.

  
  


They hadn’t kissed. They’d both leaned in, accidentally bumping their noses together, and then the guards had come in search for Paul.

Predictably, his father had been furious, and only after several hours of the master physician pleading the king had relented and allowed Hugh to continue his training. But of course he and Paul were banned from seeing each other again, and the king had some very strong opinions on what would happen to Hugh, should he dare interact personally with Paul again.

Once Hugh was dealt with, the king’s wrath turned to Paul for associating with such low lives as Hugh. Of course he wouldn’t inherit a kingdom! But no matter how Paul argued, he was to not fraternize with Hugh anymore, and Paul was going to choose a suitable marriage prospect from the ones presented to him, eventually, and that’s that.

It wasn’t the first fight they had, and it most definitely wasn’t the last, but looking back on his relationship with his father, Paul knows that something broke during that argument.

It didn’t help, of course, that he still saw Hugh on occasion and that he grew from a gangly but pretty youth into a more strong young adult into a broad shouldered and perfectly built beautiful adult.

  
  
  


They’re seventeen, maybe eighteen years and Paul has managed to corner Hugh into a semi-public alcove during the Winter Solstice festivities since his father is already so drunk he’s barely able to lift his cup.

    “I still love you,” Paul says without preamble. “I thought I wouldn’t anymore, that maybe it was just stupid and childish and would fade, but I think about you every day. I still want to kiss you and I want to sneak you into my chambers and go on rides with you and take my lunch with you.”

Hugh presses his lips together and looks down. “I know. Me too.”

    “Then why don’t you? There’s all this me here, ready to be kissed, and nobody will find us here.”

    “You don’t know that.”

    “I’m crown prince. I’m the heir to the throne. I can be kissed by whoever I want to be kissed by.”

    “Of course. If you’re ready to bury me tomorrow.”

Paul steps closer. Hugh’s back hits the wall when he reflexively backs away. “I just want to know what it’s like.”

    “There are plenty of other people you can kiss.”

    “But only one who I love.”

Worry carves lines in the corners of Hugh’s eyes as he looks up. He trails his knuckles over Paul’s cheekbone and then brushes his thumb over Paul’s lips. Paul kisses it.

    “I would love nothing more but to kiss you,” Hugh says. “But… I think if I start I won’t be able to stop.”

    “So don’t stop.”

Hugh sighs. “Paul, I promise you that one day, I’ll marry you, if you’ll have me.”

    “Of course I will! But - please, just one kiss, Hugh, just one. To last me until, well, until we can actually be together.”

    “If I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop until I’m doing a number of indecent things to you.” Hugh rubs his hand over Paul’s neck and then withdraws it. “Maybe it’s better this way.”

    “This way does leave me rather unkissed though.”

  
  


Hugh is twenty-one when he leaves for the longest duration yet, on an apprenticeship somewhere far in the south. When he returns, he’s grown a beard. A nice one, too. Very short and despite having been travelling it’s also very neat.

The first time they both have a few moments to spend privately, Paul teases him about it but also touches it.

    “It’s so weird. And prickly. What does it _do_?”

    “It sits on my _face_ , babyface.”

    “I’m not babyfaced! Besides, this thing probably gets in the way of kissing.”

    “Sure you’re babyfaced.” Hugh is clearly having way too much fun. “Come on, when’s the last time you had a beard? Oh, I know. Never.”

So Paul grows a beard.

And then shaves it off three weeks later because he doesn’t want to have to keep having talks about why he won’t dye it. Who even comes up with that nonsense? Also no matter what products he tries, it still feels far too scratchy to potentially be enjoyable to Hugh when they finally have that kiss.

  
  


And now Paul is twenty-eight and his father still refuses to give up even an iota of his power, and Paul is still woefully unkissed. Not for lack of suitors trying, or lack of offers, or lack of Paul begging Hugh again and again.

All of the noble children that had been decided to be his friends have long since been married, several of them also with lovers and affairs left and right while Paul bides his time, clinging to the hope that he will eventually be able to drag Hugh into his private sitting room and kiss him until neither of them can breathe anymore. Maybe get Hugh to mess up his hair. Fall asleep with him.

The full moon shines through the curtains, right into Paul’s eye, and maybe he should’ve asked his night servant to close them, but for once he really couldn’t bear her presence and had kicked her out as soon as she started her shift.

His father had sent for him just a few hours before dinner, and naturally, the talk had been unpleasant, to say the least. Paul has to marry. Paul has to do this better, has to stop doing that, has to quit these beliefs and take on some others; he’s a disgrace for those reasons, a failure for these others, and overall falling short of all expectations ever. He’s perfectly used to those talks by now, but they still always leave him in a horrible mood.

Also Hugh rebutted him again today. Which Paul is also used to, but it has yet to hurt any less. It’s not that he doesn’t understand Hugh’s reasons, or doesn’t agree with them, but it’s lonely to have to keep waiting when Hugh is right there within his reach. Especially when he’s been in love with Hugh for over fifteen years and the days of hugging him on occasion are long past. Even if they weren’t forbidden from being lovers, it still wouldn’t be acceptable for both of them to be seen interacting quite so intimately, seeing how they’re not married.

Even though it would be so _nice_ to marry Hugh. Put a ring on his finger, dance with him, take dinner together, and then -

Paul flops on his back. It’s not like he doesn’t know what happens during a wedding night. At a certain age, all children are educated quite, uh, graphically in what happens when two adults go to bed together, and it’s not like he hasn’t heard stories too. And sure, sometimes that’s all he can think about when he thinks of Hugh, but more often than not it’s the simple things. Holding him. Sleeping next to him. Trading sweet kisses as he’s seen plenty of lovers do. Walking together with their fingers entwined. Not having to steal moments and glances anymore. Feeling Hugh wrap him up in his arms.

Paul so desperately doesn’t want to have to settle for secret, stolen touches and fleeting glances anymore.

  
  


    “His condition is worsening, your Highness,” the doctor reports a few weeks later.

Paul huffs softly. “I suppose it would be considered rude if my response was positive. Walk with me?”

They end up in the gardens again, Hugh carefully staying two paces apart from Paul.

    “Paul,” he says, voice small. “Please don’t ask me to kiss you again. I can’t refuse you any longer.”

    “How long until my father dies?”

Hugh chokes. “A - a few months, maybe.”

    “That’s still a very long time.”

    “Whatever you’re going to ask me, don’t. Paul, I love you and I can’t wait to get to love you every day, but I will not expedit your father’s death.”

    “You’re too good a person for me.”

    “No, I just don’t want to go to prison until I know what you look like without all those pretty clothes.”

Paul laughs and steps in front of Hugh, walking backwards while tugging at his collar. “If you want me to lose them, you just have to say so.”

He laughs even more when Hugh shoves him into the bushes for that.

  
  


The king continues to swing between sickness and health, parading marriage prospects in front of Paul whenever he can.

    “You will marry,” he declares just after Paul managed to dismiss Viscount Darabol’s wealthy son, a fifty-five year old, pot-bellied merchant. “I will not see my only son forfeit this kingdom because he’s too self-important to marry!”

    “Then maybe you should’ve had more children,” Paul snaps back. “Or maybe you should present the son with more suitable marriage prospects. I will not fall into bed with someone whose presence I can barely stand!”

In earlier years, a retort like that would’ve gotten him backhanded. But now his father is too weak to reach him, so he settles for a hateful glare.

    “It’s a matter of state, boy. Don’t fill your head up with those fanciful notions of love. That only makes you weak, and the last thing the throne needs is a weak ruler.”

    “Even a marriage of state has to be consummated, and I refuse to -”

    “Oh, get over yourself. Just close your eyes and get through with it.”

    “Is that what you did with my mother? Or how else did she come back from a half year long diplomatic trip right after her wedding night and six months pregnant?”

    “That’s enough!”

  
  


    “Getting that worked up is bad for his heart,” Hugh says without preamble once he comes out of the king’s chambers again.

    “Good for mine though. Walk with me?”

    “My apologies, Highness, but there are other matters I have to attend to.” Hugh bows and withdraws.

  
  


Summer slowly turns to autumn and Paul spends quite a few happy hours racing his horse over the first bare fields. He also catches a cold after being surprised by a thoroughly miserable burst of rain, but that only means that the royal physician has to check up on him once he’s snuggled into his bed.

    “You’re young and usually healthy, so you should be perfectly fine after a few days of taking it easy.”

    “But I do feel dreadfully sick. I think I need special attention from the royal physician.” Paul does his best to look the part, but it just makes Hugh laugh and fluff his blankets.

    “I will read His Highness a story, if he wishes. Maybe that would help.”

    “Oh! Yes, absolutely! Please!”

  
  


Autumn also has the king getting sicker, and that has Paul having to spend less time counteracting his father’s decisions, leading to him having more free time, and so he picks up calligraphy again. It had been the only fine art presented to him that he actually wanted to learn, and his instructors had been satisfied with that, especially when it turned into a hobby rather than an imposed skill. There might also be journals upon journals filled with love letters to a mysterious H., written as beautifully as possible, hidden in all kinds of secret spaces. None of them he had ever shown to anyone, of course, but there are one and a half decades of ink spilling out his deepest desires, just waiting to be read by the man they were written to.

‘Hugh’ is even a very nice name to write, with so many pretty loops that, with the right amount of skill and practise, can be turned into hearts very nicely.

Of course Paul is also used to burning these evidences of his love more or less immediately after completing them.

  
  


The king dies in the middle of October. It’s a beautiful warm, golden day outside, and after Paul has paid his respects (not really, he just stood in the empty room staring at his father, wondering whether he should consider feeling distressed, then brushing it off as too energy consuming), he heads to the pine forest in the gardens with a little picnic basket. Hugh will know to find him here once he’s finished with his duties, and until then Paul braids a flower crown for himself.

    “Your Highness.” Hugh stops on the path and nods towards him. “I understand you already heard the news.”

    “I did.”

    “My condolences.”

    “Eh.” Paul waves his hand and gets up, meandering towards him. “I knew you’d find me here.”

Hugh smirks and finally steps off the path and towards Paul. “There’s something I’ve been promised for fifteen years, and I’m here to collect my reward.”

His hand settles on Paul’s waist. Paul’s hands come up to settle on Hugh’s chest. He loses his breath somewhere along the way. It’s been ages since they’ve been this close, physically, and Hugh is warm and firm and smiling beautifully. His other hand comes up to cup Paul’s cheek. He exhales shakily when they bump foreheads, and his heart is beating fast under Paul’s fingers.

    “I - Hugh, I don’t, I don’t really know what to do,” Paul admits. “You know I’ve never, um, kissed anyone.”

    “I know. I don’t know what I’m doing either. We’ll figure it out.”

    “You’ve been kissed before.”

    “That’s almost sixteen years ago, Paul. And there’s only so much practise you can do with a pillow.”

Paul snickers into their shared space. “You practised kissing with your pillow?”

    “I… wanted to make it enjoyable for you?” Hugh grins back at him, pulling him a little tighter towards him. “Come on, your Highness. Don’t tell me you waited a lifetime just to chicken out now.”

    “Alright.” Paul licks his lips, dips his eyes for a moment, fascinated by Hugh’s pretty plush lips.

It’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? You just move closer to the other person and then… press your lips to theirs, right?

And Hugh’s _are_ plush and warm and Paul is only feeling mildly shaky and dizzy.

It’s Hugh’s turn to snicker. “You call that a kiss, your Highness?”

    “Wh- what? Why?” Paul’s cheeks are burning just a little.

    “Come on, your Highness. Don’t tease me with this kiss for years and then not deliver all the pretty ideas you’ve had.”

Paul grins and presses his face into the side of Hugh’s. “Don’t tease your new king.”

    “King of my heart?” Hugh winks and delivers a quick peck to Paul’s cheek.

Paul pretends to squirm away, jaw rubbing against Hugh’s beard before he settles again, and that’s just really nice.

    “Allow me,” Hugh mutters and wraps his arm properly around Paul’s waist, pulling him completely flush to him. Paul sighs into this new kiss, lets Hugh pull him in, teeth brushing lightly over his lower lip. It makes Paul gasp again, and this time Hugh’s hand wanders to the back of Paul’s head, carding through the carefully styled hair, messing it up. Hugh’s tongue trails across the seam of Paul’s lips, and he opens them practically instinctively in another gasp. Hugh’s lips muffle the sound, and he can’t help but smile before he tilts Paul’s head back a little more, runs his tongue over the sensitive skin on his parted lips. Paul whimpers softly, and tentatively lets his own tongue explore the texture of Hugh’s lips. It’s warm, and thrillingly intimate. Hugh finds a sensitive spot at the roof of his mouth, and Paul moans, lets him pull away only to sink back into the kiss.

It’s a really good thing Hugh is holding him steady, because Paul may or may not have a serious case of weak knees.

    “So this is what that’s like.”

    “Apparently,” Hugh replies, eyes sparkling.

    “I think we need to do that more. A lot, really.”

    “I agree.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i'm glad i at least managed to write this thing bc writing energy is running really low atm, yikes  
> but anyways! thank you for reading this! please leave me a comment, it'd make my day <3
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [(don't forget to listen to more shinedown)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AsPY1bQx70&list=PLK8s1YzIX-6DqEAClHLOY0HdbLBGqs6gi)


End file.
